


Gym Wars

by delires



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delires/pseuds/delires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which friendship is not immediately obvious to the untrained eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gym Wars

**Author's Note:**

> I don't remember what I called this story when I first posted it on LJ. But the file name was 'Gym Wars', so...why not?

Arthur is a private man.

He likes that his house is tucked safely away from the hustle and bustle of central Los Angeles. He likes that the deli on the corner, full of the smell of espresso, is nearly always empty when he goes to buy his favourite Kenyan coffee beans. He likes to spend his weekday evenings alone with a good book or a complicated movie on DVD (something twisty and intense which he can gleefully pick holes in). He likes to get to the gym very early or very late so that he can work out in peace.

Arthur is not antisocial. Arthur has friends, he has family. But Arthur likes things to be on his terms. He spends his time after a job, mostly alone, waiting calmly for the next job to start. This suits him.

What Arthur does not like is spanners, or wrenches, or any other kind of tool, clogging up the works. When he is on the job, his role is to seek out these clogs and eradicate them, to ensure that all mechanisms can continue running smoothly at all times.

He especially does not like it when the tool in the works goes by the name of ‘Eames’.

This is why it stops Arthur in his tracks when he runs into Eames as he is leaving the gym one night.

Eames is supposed to be in London. Arthur has checked this. He makes it a point to keep tabs on all the people he works with so that he is able to contact them at the drop of a hat when the need arises. Yet, here Eames is, strolling into the air-con from the slick heat of a Californian sunset. He has a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and car keys jangling in his hand, by all appearances a regular Los Angeles fitness freak. He looks entirely the part.

With Eames, however, appearances can be deceiving.

Eames has not had a shave in at least three days. Arthur knows this because they almost walk smack into one another as he rounds the corner, the scuffled contact putting his face alarmingly close to Eames’s. One of Eames’s hands catches against Arthur’s upper arm, steadying them both and Eames is halfway through an apology when his eyes light in recognition, real or concocted. He smiles at Arthur like a crocodile.

Arthur is appalled.

“What are you doing here?” Arthur blurts, highly uncouth, but unnerved by the knowledge that his red die is currently out of easy reach, buried in a pocket of his gym bag. Eames grins wider.

“Pleasure to see you too, mate,” he says.

“No. Really. What are you doing here?” Arthur repeats, because this is in no way fun to him. Eames snorts, rolls his eyes.

“I’m going to the gym, Arthur. What are _you_ doing?”

Arthur can already feel the dull pain in his jaw that comes when he clenches his teeth too hard.

“What are you doing in _Los Angeles_ ,” he grinds out.

Eames’s expression changes. He glances swiftly over both shoulders, then, apparently deciding that they are safe from eavesdroppers, he steps towards Arthur and leans close. Arthur resists the urge to recoil.

“I’m going to be in town for a couple of months. Got a nice job lined up,” Eames says, “Figured I might as well make myself at home during my stay.”

Eames’s cologne smells cheap. His shirt looks cheap. Arthur can’t imagine how this man could possibly feel at home here.

“This is _my_ gym,” Arthur says, firmly, not bothering to conceal the threats laced into his words. Eames raises one eyebrow.

“I’m terribly sorry, Arthur, but I was not informed of that during the registration process,” he says, mock-apologetic. “I’m afraid we’re yet another casualty of that thing which we call a ‘small world’. Looks like we’ll have to learn to share, won’t we?”

Arthur cannot even justify this with a response. Arthur is most definitely not a sharer. All he wants to do now is return home in order to check with absolute certainty that this is not in fact a dream, and then, if necessary, consider a very extended vacation to New Zealand.

He is already halfway down the corridor when Eames calls after him. Arthur turns back to see Eames smiling his crocodile smile once more. “If you’re not too busy,” Eames says, sweetly, “perhaps you could show me around the neighbourhood sometime.”

One of Arthur’s hands is already working at the zip on the pocket of his bag, searching unobtrusively for the die.

“I’m always busy, Eames,” he says with finality. Then he walks away.

Los Angeles is not a small city. Neither is it a city short on high-end gyms. Had this situation occurred with anybody else Arthur would have been perfectly prepared to chalk it up to an unfortunate, if statistically improbable, coincidence. But this is Eames. With Eames, nothing is ever accidental.

Of course, Eames always wants to be at the gym at exactly the same time Arthur wants to be at the gym. Any hope Arthur had of this not being the case is quickly dispatched with the day after he first runs into Eames, when Arthur is there at the crack of dawn. He likes to swim after a workout when the pool is still cold and empty.

Arthur is striking smooth, effortless lengths through the morning calm when his concentration is abruptly shattered by an explosion of water in the lane beside him. Despite the signs clearly ordering ‘NO DIVNG’, the pool’s surface is now rumbling and gushing from what could have been nothing more than a colossal, impertinent dive.

Arthur knows that this chaos has been caused by Eames before the other man even surfaces. Only Eames would read prohibitive signs as a challenge rather than a warning.

Arthur is a good swimmer, but he is slender. His body is built for running. Eames, however, has the broad shoulders and strong arms to make his front crawl particularly powerful. He is faster at this than Arthur. He is better.

Arthur climbs angrily out of the pool in a shower of drips and does not look back to see if Eames even acknowledges him.

If this situation had occurred with any other work acquaintance, Arthur would not have minded. Some sort of uncomplicated arrangement could have been designed to ensure that they attended the gym in question at different times. Nobody’s peace or privacy would therefore have been compromised. But this is Eames. With Eames nothing is ever uncomplicated.

The next day, Arthur arrives at the gym late morning instead of early, in a bid to avoid another run-in. It has meant changing his usual routine, struggling through an hour of early morning research when his brain is still too groggy to really work efficiently.

Yet when Arthur swings his car round into the car park, it is to find Eames in the middle of parking a Ford monstrosity in Arthur’s usual parking space.

Arthur brakes immediately. He puts his own car in reverse and resolves that from now on, he will limit his gym time to evenings and nights only.

This resolution earns him two Eames-free days before they run into each other again.

Arthur is just getting ready to leave, standing freshly showered in front of his locker and pulling his oldest polo shirt over his head when he feels a thickness in the air which means that someone is standing right behind him.

“Good workout?” Eames asks, far too close to Arthur’s ear and in that ridiculous overtly flirtatious voice which Eames seems to find so funny. Arthur’s stomach clenches with adrenaline, just as it does when a projection in a dream catches him with a sudden, deadly glare.

Arthur snatches his bag from the floor and shoulders past Eames, refusing to be intimidated. A man sitting on the bench between the lockers has paused in lacing up his shoes to look at them.

“I’m not going to tell you again,” Arthur says to Eames loudly. “If you continue to harass me in this manner, I _will_ be informing the management.” He spares the man watching them his best look of warning and is pleased when the man looks back at him with sympathy before narrowing his eyes at Eames in shared hostility.

Eames just smirks though, and begins to undress, so it does not feel like much of a victory.

It especially doesn’t feel like a victory when Eames is not at the gym the next day, or the day after that and yet Arthur still spends his whole workout glancing back at the door and eyeing every set of broad shoulders with suspicion.

On the third day, Arthur gets a call on his business line from an unfamiliar number. He’s in the middle of eating Vietnamese takeout and has to swallow his mouthful of chao tom before he can answer.

“Evening, Arthur. Please hear me out before you hang up on me,” says Eames over the phone line. Arthur scowls.

“This had better be a business call,” he says.

“This gym thing,” says Eames. “It’s not working.”

That gets Arthur’s attention. He sets his chopsticks neatly down on the edge of his plate.

“Go on,” he says.

“I’m not anxious for there to be a big to-do over this. You were here first. And despite the fact that it is perhaps the most superb gym I have ever frequented, I’m prepared to relinquish it to you.”

It is the last thing Arthur was expecting to hear.

“On what condition?” he asks, because Eames is not the sort of man to give away something for nothing.

“I’m appalled you would even _think_ that I would ask you to,” Eames begins, but Arthur cuts him off.

“Eames,” he says, because he knows Eames far too well.

“Fine,” says Eames, and Arthur can hear the smirk in his voice. “On the condition that you help me to find another gym of comparable quality where I can go for the rest of my stay.”

“That’s it?” Arthur asks, suspicious.

“That’s entirely it,” Eames says. “I don’t know the area. I only found _your_ gym in the first place on the recommendation of an acquaintance. I am not prepared to trawl an unfamiliar city searching for an adequate substitute.”

Arthur takes a moment to process, to scan this suggestion for levels of danger above the usual residual amount always involved in dealings with Eames. All of Arthur’s readings come up negative.

“What do you say?” Eames prompts.

Arthur picks up the chopsticks, twirls them absently between his fingers.

“Okay,” he says.

Arthur does his research and settles on a place in West Hollywood. It has the same sleek glamour as Arthur’s gym, a sizeable bar, all the necessary state of the art equipment, and most importantly, it is far enough away from Arthur’s home in Pasadena that there need be no more accidental meetings.

He takes Eames to see it, driving over to pick him up from a rented apartment first.

Eames seems to be on his best behaviour. He does not tease or whistle or hum. He is dressed almost inoffensively in jeans and a deep blue T-shirt. He makes something akin to polite conversation which Arthur finds himself accidentally drawn into.

“You drive manual,” Eames observes, as Arthur pulls smoothly away from the kerb and presses the car up through the gears. Eames eyes the gearstick, but keeps his hands to himself.

“I like the control,” Arthur replies, because it seems only polite to.

“Of course you do,” Eames says with a smile.

“Do you have a problem with manual drive?” Arthur asks.

“Not at all. I’m British. ‘Automatic’ is a dirty word,” Eames grins and then uses this leverage to steer the conversation to the neutral topic of transatlantic weather.

At the new gym, Arthur listens attentively to the trainer who shows them around. Arthur makes all the necessary enquiries. Eames seems more interested in perusing the latest cricket scores on his iPhone.

“So, what do you think?” Arthur asks when their tour is over and Eames’s inattention to their guide has reached borderline rude. Eames looks up from his phone and smiles broadly at the hapless trainer.

“It’s lovely,” he says. “Where do I sign up?”

They get the paperwork signed and walk out into the hard midday sunlight.

“What do you say we get a bite to eat?” Eames asks, as they are climbing back into the car. “My treat. To say thank you,” he adds, when Arthur looks at him in alarm.

It is a ridiculous suggestion. No good can come of it. But Eames has been polite today and Arthur had an early breakfast. He finds himself agreeing before he can think it through too thoroughly.

They end up in a contemporary little French restaurant of Eames’s choice. Eames directs Arthur there with unusual ease for somebody who professes not to know the city well. The restaurant’s decor is slick and understated. The colours are cool neutrals with dark, glossy accents. The place is spotless. It reminds Arthur a little too much of his own dreamscapes. He spends a good five minutes absently clutching the die in his pocket as he studies the menu.

“Wine?” Eames asks Arthur, when Eames is quite finished flirting with the waitress in lazy but perfectly-accented French. Arthur passes his menu back to the girl, trying hard not to roll his eyes at the wanton look she is directing at Eames.

“I’m driving,” Arthur says.

“You can have one glass,” Eames says, adding in a studiously careless tone, “The Pinot Noir is particularly good here.”

“Fine. I’ll have a small glass of the Pinot Noir,” Arthur tells the waitress.

Eames grins wide at her.

“Bring the bottle, love. I’ll drink the rest.”

Arthur’s duck is excellent. The wine is excellent. Eames...is tolerable. He talks easily and at length, having had years of practice at filling up silences. He talks mostly about the job he is working (very unwisely, in Arthur’s opinion, considering the public setting).  Arthur only has to contribute when he feels like contributing.

He feels suddenly and violently like contributing (so much so that he nearly spits wine across the table), when Eames starts chattering about the notion of ‘round’ and ‘flat’ characters and his plan to lure the mark, who is a professor of literature, into discussion of the finer points of character typing in order to determine how the mark views certain key figures in his life. 

“I do happen to know that he is partial to the work of Hemingway,” Eames says. He has finished eating and is leaning back in his chair, wine glass cradled in one hand.

Arthur looks up sharply, knife and fork still poised mid-cut.

“That’s fairly irrelevant considering you’ve just been detailing a theory of Forster’s,” Arthur says.

Eames scratches his chin, unconvinced.

“Or a theory of Hemingway’s. As I just said.”

“It’s Forster, Eames,” Arthur snaps. “Those ideas have always belonged to Forster.”

“I think you’ll find that they can be attributed to Hemingway.”

“You can’t-!” Arthur begins, too enthusiastic. He composes himself as Eames raises an eyebrow at him, and struggles to lower his voice. “You can’t misattribute things like that,” Arthur says. “Your mark will know. He’s a professor, for fuck’s sake. You make a mistake like that and the whole job will go to shit.”

He scowls and stabs at a piece of duck with his fork. Eames is watching him with amusement.

“Why so animated? Surely you aren’t concerned for my welfare?”

“No. I’m concerned for all the other people whose welfare your stupidity might be putting at risk.”

Eames smirks at that. He reaches casually for the wine and tops up his glass.

“Forster, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then. I’ll be certain to check my facts,” Eames says in a tone which very much suggests that he is humouring Arthur’s delusions.

The tone makes Arthur’s blood boil. He is certain that Eames knows full well that it was Forster.

After lunch, he drives Eames back to the rented apartment and stops the car on the road with its engine idling in neutral.  

“Well,” Eames says, slapping the palms of his hands down onto his thighs and turning to Arthur with a grin. Arthur waits patiently for him to get out.

“Let’s not say ‘goodbye’,” Eames says, “I hate the word. It’s so final. There must be another option.”

Arthur slips the car back into first gear.

“I’d rather we did say goodbye,” he says.

Eames chuckles. There is apparently something deeply amusing to Eames about everything that Arthur ever says or does.

“Goodbye, Arthur,” Eames says, courteously, before he gets out of the car and saunters away.

Three peaceful days pass in which Arthur can breathe easy in the comfort of his routines. He draws together and tidies up his dossiers ready for the Cobol job. He meets his sister for lunch and pretends to listen to her dilemmas about bridesmaid dresses. He confirms the reservations with the Tokyo hotels, wiring the information to Cobb in Columbia. He stocks up on coffee from the deli on the corner. He meets up with some old college buddies who are in town on business and drinks too much tequila with them in a string of bars downtown. He puts in a call to Nash in Barcelona and bullies him into submission when Nash quibbles over the arrangements. He rents ‘Zodiac’ and is at first fascinated by its ciphers, but ultimately frustrated with its lack of total resolution. Most gloriously, though, Arthur attends the gym whenever he feels like it, without fear of ambush.

Of course, this is all too good to last.

Arthur is perusing his collection of takeout menus when Eames turns up at his door at seven o’clock in the evening.

“How do you have this address?” Arthur asks, standing in the doorway, refusing to invite Eames inside.

Eames’s smile is strained. It tips Arthur off immediately that whatever comes next will be especially frustrating.

“Believe it or not, you aren’t the only one who makes it their business to know things. Listen, mate,” Eames says, apologetically, rubbing at the back of his neck, “Job went bad, I’m afraid. I’ve a taxi waiting. I’m dashing to the airport as we speak.”

Arthur frowns at him.

“And you’ve stopped off here in the middle of your getaway because?”

To Eames’s credit, he doesn’t dance around the truth.

“Unfortunately I’ve reason to believe that our car was tailed during our little excursion the other day.”

Arthur feels all of the muscles in his jaw tighten. He grips the edge of his door.

“You mean, _my_ car was tailed,” Arthur says.

“My apologies,” Eames says.

There’s a moment of quiet, where Arthur turns this over in his mind. He glares over his shoulder at the files piled on his desk and attempts to calculate how much time it would take to gather everything he will need to continue preparations for the Cobol job, how feasible it would be to alter his flights.

“Of course you’re a big boy, you’re free to do as you please. But my advice would be to get out of the state for a while. Out of the country if you can.”

Arthur is not an idiot. He does not need Eames to advise him on what he already knows and Arthur says as much. Eames holds up both hands, in a gesture of peace.

When Arthur glances around his apartment a second time, he catches a glint of something from the roof of the building opposite, as if the sun is catching against the telescopic sight of a rifle. It happens too quickly for Arthur to be sure if he imagined it or not, but the uncertainty is enough to make the decision for him.

“Hold on,” he says, as Eames is turning to go. Eames looks back at him. “Forget the taxi. I’ll drive you. I’m coming too.”

Arthur sweeps his files into the pocket of his laptop case. It’s easy, they are already neatly self-contained. He tugs a packed holdall from under his bed, which he keeps ready for just such moments of emergency travel and tosses the strap across his chest. He collects the silver PASIV case from the locked closet in the hallway, tucks a passport into the pocket of his jacket and is ready at the door with his car keys in less than three minutes. 

Despite his knowledge of Eames’s practised competency, Arthur still gets a little thrill of surprise when, unprompted, Eames takes the PASIV case smoothly from him as their paths cross behind the car, so that Arthur is able to open his door unhindered. Arthur is aware that he does not need to glance up at the building where he saw the potential glint of a sniper rifle because Eames is already squinting at exactly the same spot, one hand tucked under the back of his jacket, ready on what is certainly a concealed firearm. Eames’s gaze only leaves the rooftop when he hears the click of remote locking and they both duck into the car. Arthur can only approve of the way that Eames tosses his own bag carelessly onto the back seat, yet tucks the PASIV case securely behind his legs as Arthur presses the accelerator and the car rockets forwards.

In moments of crisis, Arthur knows that he can rely on Eames. Their professional personas are as harmonious as their civilian selves are discordant.

“I’m keeping watch on our back,” Eames says, twisted in his seat to stare out of the back window as Arthur guns it down the freeway. Arthur keeps an eye on every junction ahead of them, watching the cars which join the road, whilst clocking up hours in his head to get the most realistic projection for an arrival time at Narita.

“We seem clear for now,” Eames says, eventually, which is the same conclusion that Arthur has reached, although he has not said so. It strikes Arthur as a remarkably easy loss of a tail.

Imminent danger seemingly at bay, Eames’s gaze settles on the car’s radio. “Do you know what this is, Arthur? Do you know what such a contraption is used for?” Eames teases as he reaches for the dials, clearly trying to provoke a reaction. Arthur does not rise to it. Adrenaline makes him mellow to a point where Eames’s banter simply rolls harmlessly over him.

“Of course,” Arthur says.

“How about a little getaway music?” Eames asks with a grin.

“Be my guest,” Arthur says, switching lanes to overtake a rattling Escort.

The radio is already tuned to a local station, partly because it is best for the local traffic reports, partly because Arthur is twenty-six and does not live under a rock.

“Is this supposed to be annoying me?” Arthur asks, raising his voice to be heard above the beat of the Black Eyed Peas when Eames turns the volume up higher. “Because it isn’t. I listen to this station all the time.”

“Please,” Eames says, deliberately adopting a tone of utter cynicism, “You listen to this station all the time?”

“I listen to this station all the time,” Arthur repeats, calmly.

“You don’t even know the name of the song,” Eames challenges.

Arthur snorts. He knows more than the name. The song has been practically on loop for months now in the bars downtown.

“I like that boom boom pow, Them chicken jackin’ my style, They try to copy my swagger, I’m on that next shit now,” Arthur recites along to Fergie’s recorded drawl, with no less than the complete accuracy he strives to achieve in every field.

“Stop,” says Eames, incredulous.

“For a start, these people are from _my_ country, not yours,” Arthur says, “And secondly, I partied to this kind of shit in university while it was actually current, which is more than you can say. Grandpa,” he adds.

Eames chuckles.

“Oh, darling,” he says, “So you weren’t the repressed, friendless child that your bitter adult persona suggests you to have been?”

“No. I was fucking popular, actually. Don’t profess to know me, Mr. Eames. You don’t.”

“I know that you’re a brat,” Eames says.

“Asshole,” Arthur returns.

Eames’s voice is laced with more self-satisfaction than befits a man who has just utterly failed to meet all of his professional objectives (in a, Arthur now suspects, possibly fictitious job) and, as a result has just seen an undoubtedly hefty paycheque slip through his fingers.

For his part, Arthur keeps his eyes on the road, lest the expression on his face be mistaken for a smile.

Before Arthur heads to the long-stay car park, he drops Eames off outside the terminal because it’s always best not to pass through customs at the same time as somebody you wouldn’t necessarily want to be traced to.

“Where are you headed?” Arthur asks, as Eames switches of the radio and reaches behind his seat, stretching for his bag.

“Mombasa. Easy to disappear in Mombasa,” Eames says. He tugs the bag between the seats, hefts the strap onto his shoulder and pauses to look Arthur in the eye.

The word ‘goodbye’ sticks in Arthur’s throat. 

“Here’s looking at you kid,” Eames says, and winks, before he gets out of the car and saunters away.

 


End file.
